


Dubiously Healthy Coping Mechanisms

by Garden_Beast



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, BDSM, Grindr AU, Humor, Like legitimately Do Not Do This At Home, Lots of bad BDSM practices, M/M, Mild stalkery behavior
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:40:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28799985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garden_Beast/pseuds/Garden_Beast
Summary: Since his mid-twenties, Will Graham has indulged in anonymous sex for mental health purposes. Nothing else manages to relieve his stress quite like it, especially when his preferred means of stress relief ends with bite and scratch marks on all involved parties. He meets with some doctor or other to let off some steam after a particularly nasty case with Crawford, and as far as he's concerned they'll never meet again.Hannibal Lecter respectfully disagrees.Inspired by Reneeheart's fabulous fic, "Anonymous."
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 32
Kudos: 168





	1. Needs Must

Will Graham managed to find balance in his life the same way most people did: through calculated imbalance. If he pushed himself to the point of exhaustion and took a few days to recover, well, that was the nature of his work. If his means of stress relief happened to include getting shoved against a hotel room wall and fucked within an inch of his life by a stranger, then so be it. 

More important than the stranger behind him, or the way Will’s arm was twisted painfully behind his back, or the way the stranger’s dick brushed against his prostate with every thrust, was one simple fact: he wasn’t thinking about anything. As full as his body felt, his mind was blessedly, blissfully empty of anything, let alone murder, and that was something no prescription or shrink could ever give him. 

The fingers in his hair grasped him hard; his mouth dropped open before he could stop it, and in return he felt fingers pressing in past his teeth. He closed his lips around them and sucked. He’d dealt with his sexuality crisis in grad school, back when an entomology professor had patiently stayed after class with him to discuss a paper he’d been writing; he didn’t remember much of the conversation past the way the tendons in his professor’s hands had stretched and moved; how rough his jaw looked, facial hair short enough to feel rough against his palms. That was what he had imagined, at least. 

He never found out. Instead, he met with some forward English Literature track TA due to a clerical error in classroom scheduling, and four days later found that a man’s mouth wasn’t much different from a woman’s when its lips were wrapped around his cock. To this day Will couldn’t remember his name, but he still remembered the silk of his hair between his fingers; the way his throat closed around him, more daring than anything he’d ever known. 

Women were less interested in roughness, Will had come to learn: a woman he’d dated for a month or two didn’t particularly care for her hair being pulled when he suggested the idea. Another told him to slow down, be gentler, and another still softly explained to him that, as nice as he was, some of his more private needs went well beyond her comfort level. It was fine-- his tastes weren’t for everyone. He learned that he was a better friend than lover, even if his brand of friendship included wincing smiles and awkward silences that would linger after he opened his mouth. Really, it was fine. He was fine.

When Edmund Something-Or-Other-- was it Edward? Aaron, maybe? Well, anyway-- when the English Lit PhD candidate deepthroated him in his 1991 Toyota Corolla, nails sinking into his uncovered thighs, _well_ , things took a turn for the interesting, as far as Will was concerned. Every so often they would run into one another, and lo and behold they were both available for something quick nearby. When Will finally gathered the courage to ask what Lit PhD candidate was studying, he learned bounds of what their relationship was expected to be. 

It worked well enough for him; the teeth-shaped bruises on his thighs would be the most permanent aspect of their encounters, Will found. If he had come to like the way they’d ache when he sat down on hard library desk chairs, well, that was just the cherry on top. 

Once English Lit PhD candidate morphed into a full-fledged English Lit PhD, Doctor of English Literature, however, Will Graham was presented with a problem: he was no economics buff, but the Doctor had created within him a demand, and sadly the supply had dried up. Semi-sadistic heteroflexible men weren’t offered to him on a platter every day-- no, he’d have to search out someone new himself. This presented a dilemma. 

Will Graham hated bars. Hated them. They were loud, and smelly, and always tightly packed, as if the outdoors simply weren’t an adequate space for drunkenness. But needs must, and his needs were becoming an issue of ‘must’ or ‘snap at his advisor for the sixth time that week.’ Seeing that he preferred staying in his current program, he began considering his needs in a different light-- a means of self care before ‘self care’ even became a buzzword. A way of keeping his head screwed on, or as tightly screwed on as someone like him could manage. So he went to a bar. He found one well away from his school, because he wouldn’t shit where he ate, and found some stranger to scratch an itch he couldn’t quite reach. 

It was very simple, very routine: once per month he’d drive up north to Baltimore, park his car in the shitty hotel he only used for sex, and find someone who had a preference for violent sex. His peers and professors never asked him why he had rope burns on his wrists, just as he assumed his partners’ kin didn’t ask about the marks Will left. He had a system, and it worked. 

Until he started teaching at the FBI academy. As nice as it was to have a semi-cushy job that required minimal one-on-one discussion, the idea of being caught out as a habitual seeker of rough gay sex had him staying away from his once-favorite pickup place. He was fine with it, of course; no one _needed_ to have sex on a regular basis for the sake of mental health. Regular exercise, time spent with his dogs, building fishing lures-- these were healthy means of keeping his mental health in check. He was a healthy man, if not necessarily a social one. His dogs liked that he stayed home-- sure, he only really left overnight once per month, but even then there was some amount of guilt in leaving them overnight, even if the pack could care for itself for that long. Hell, it wasn’t like he left them without food and water. But it was good that he was home. Fishing. Walking the dogs. Making dog food, homemade. It was healthier that way. 

He went to work. He taught his classes. He came home. He lived his comfortable little routine, even as it grew a touch rote through repetition. This was what it was to lead a normal life. A healthy life. Plenty of people woke up without scratch marks running down their backs, or bruises blossoming wherever a mouth could fit. His back only hurt after a long day of grading papers and conducting research, though his head had a tendency to start aching whenever Jack Crawford was in earshot. Sometimes he would have to work as a profiler for him, an awkward little pet that skittered behind Jack wherever he went. An anomaly. But most of the time, and that was what was important-- _most_ of the time. Most of the time, he taught, and he cooked himself healthy dinners, and went on healthy walks, and spent his time with the healthy habit of fly-fishing. He was _healthy_ , even as he came to loathe the word itself. 

One evening, after a healthy glass or three of whiskey, downed after a healthy walk, made just after his _healthy_ fish dinner, Will finally let himself search for a half-decent bar in Baltimore, or, fuck, maybe even Charlottesville. If he was going to make an overnight trip, he’d might as well play safe. 

This was when he stumbled on an app specifically built with his less-than-healthy purposes in mind. 

Really, it wasn’t hard-- as long as he insisted on a face picture before he sent his own, well, he was guaranteed full anonymity, wherever he went. Whoever he went to. Besides, how long had it been since he’d even looked for anything like this? A year? Maybe a little more? This would be a one-off thing. Something he’d try _maybe_ once per month, if he still had the energy for it. 

This was of course how he ended up in a seedy hotel in Baltimore on a balmy Thursday evening, biting at the fingers of a man whose appearance and behavior belied a violent criminal record. The second time he felt his head slam into the wall, he moaned and tasted blood that wasn’t his own. He came. Once the stranger switched condoms, Will helpfully aided in finishing him off with his mouth; if his voice was distinctly rough throughout class the next day, well, he’d long ago perfected the right ratio of honey and lemon to add to his tea. Besides, familiar aches and pains aside, he felt _great_. 

The second time he used the app was after Jack Crawford managed to take Will’s headache to new heights with a crime scene in nowhere, Nevada. The moment he stepped off the plane he had the application pulled open, scrolling through pictures of half-naked twinks in search of someone who might be able to do a little damage. Was it a healthy means of relaxing after spending days in scorching heat bent over desiccated corpses? Maybe someone would disagree, but then again there was a reason why he preferred his own coping tools over those a psychiatrist could provide. Still, he put his phone away, if only because he was sure he still smelled like death and stale Taco Bell. 

By the next weekend, however, he was back to the app, scrolling through pictures of largely naked men, some of them familiar enough for him to recognize on first look. There was Shin Kicks, somewhere else was Choke Fetish, and elsewhere in the app still was Face Slapper. Oh, Dick Punch now had a wedding ring on his hand-- good for him. Bad for his spouse, maybe, but then again fetishes could run in all different directions. 

Then, he landed on a picture he hadn’t seen before. A man, face cut off at the jaw, lounging on a fine chair in a half-unbuttoned collared shirt. The fit was too nice to be right off the rack, and the angle of his jaw wasn’t half bad, even if the fur on his chest looked a little wild. 

Hell. Will liked wild well enough. He looked tall, built well enough to pack a punch. Half-drunk on whiskey and with enough leftover headache in his temples to spur on an impulse, Will tapped his profile. 

  
  


**DoctorHL**

**Neither of us are using this app to find our ‘happily ever after.’ If you would like an evening of excellent wine and consequence-free sex, please reach out via direct message. As a fair warning, I have unorthodox tastes.**

  
  


Will snorted. Alright, then. He tapped the envelope-shaped ‘Message’ icon and began typing. 

______

  
  


Hannibal Lecter was a man of pleasures: he preferred that every aspect of his life be beautiful. This expectation extended to his many partners, regardless of his means of meeting them: some he met during opera intermissions, others in day-to-day life; most of them, however, came from a very convenient application on his phone. 

More than anything else the question was of convenience: women, while easy on the eyes and lovely to touch, generally preferred courting and romance in preparation for sex; there are of course exceptions, however, as there are exceptions to nearly every rule in life. Still, generally speaking, finding an anonymous one-night fling was much easier on the other side of the dating pool. As a private bonus, if they were rude or particularly unpleasant Hannibal could just shut them up until they fell asleep, and gain access to their phones for personal information to be stored in his rolodex. A win-win, really. This line of thinking brought him to his study one evening after a delicious dinner of Mister Jonathan Grey _au poivre_ , a glass of wine in one hand, his phone in the other. Not surprisingly, he was the recipient of the first message, courtesy of a Mister “Bassman.” Before bothering with the message, he checked his new suitor’s profile. 

The picture was somewhat lacking, as most on the app were, but there was a slender sort of beauty to the gentleman’s legs. He even had the decency to wear boxers, though admittedly they were a rather disappointing gray-blue. Hmm. His profile’s description, however, appeared more promising: 

**Bassman**

**Not into eye contact. Don’t really care what you look like, but I like it rough, both ways. If that’s a problem, move along**

  
  


Perhaps this one had potential. He checked the message, then:  
  
  
 ****

**Bassman: I’m more of a whiskey fan myself. You’re gonna have to go into more detail about the ‘unorthodox tastes,’ though**

Alright; fair enough. Hannibal set his wine glass aside and began typing. 

**DoctorHL: I’ll keep that in mind; I might have something to turn you into a wine fan yet. About my tastes, I have various preferences, none of which fall under the umbrella of “vanilla,” if that’s the term. There’s an Oscar Wilde quote that I like to apply to my set of tastes: “Everything in life is about sex except for sex. Sex is about power.”**

  
  


Mister “Bassman” must have taken the time to read his message before replying. 

  
  


**Bassman: That’s a very long-winded way to say that you’re just into BDSM**

**DoctorHL: Among other things. I’d like to hear more about your desire for “roughness.”**

**Bassman: I think getting hurt is a good time in controlled circumstances. Not much to it**

**DoctorHL: And anonymous sex counts as controlled?**

**Bassman: Compared to the alternatives, yes. What other things get you going**

**DoctorHL: Hurting and getting hurt respectfully count among those other things, if that’s what you’re asking.**

**Bassman: It was, thanks. Where are you? I’m in VA-- thoughts on hosting?**

**DoctorHL: I’d prefer to host, if you’re amenable.**

**Bassman: Perfect**

**Bassman: When sounds good?**

**DoctorHL: Tonight, if you’re available.**

**Bassman: Only one reason to be on this app. Address?**

  
  
  


Hannibal sent his home address; ‘Bassman’ informed him that he would be there in an hour and a half. And, with only eight short minutes and a few pithy messages and face pictures sent, Hannibal had ordered himself sex by delivery. Ah, the wonders of modern technology.


	2. Let's Not Get Ahead of Ourselves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted with sincerest apologies to Misters Dancy and Mikkelsen, respectively.

Hannibal Lecter was weak to beauty, and if tonight’s gentleman were ever to bother with a half-decent wardrobe and a good night’s sleep, then perhaps he would have met his match. As it was, he had found a decently handsome man who had an evident capacity for violence, and that made him interesting enough to at least warrant meeting. He underwent his usual preparations for visitors of this nature. Once done, he made himself comfortable in his slacks and semi-open button-down, prepared for a guest. 

In any other circumstance he would prefer his usual three piece suit: they were more elegant, more striking, and differentiated him from other people in a way that commanded respect. They worked well for him. However, as he had come to learn, three piece suits were not only prohibitive from the end goal (orgasm), but often came across as ‘stuffy,’ or ‘old-fashioned.’ He was both of those things, yes, but many a man had come to find his style… off-putting. That had been a lesson in both humility and butchery. Live and learn. 

Similarly, in any other situation he would have prepared a meal for his guest; he wasn’t the type to let most guests leave hungry. How unfortunate that his end goal usually required a fast from one or both parties. All of these considerations factored into the rarity of these occasions; he was a man who enjoyed his routine, after all. 

But routines could bend without breaking, and he had come to desire a bed partner to squirm under his dexterous hands. He only hoped that tonight’s companion would live up to expectations. 

His guest arrived five minutes later than promised, but then again he couldn’t blame him for an inaccurate estimate, considering the distance. 

Besides, he had weakness for a pretty face, and this one didn’t disappoint. With his hands in his pockets, glasses barely askew, and face downturned, his nameless guest looked less like a one night stand and more like a child forced to attend a wedding. “Welcome,” Hannibal began with his characteristically courteous smile, stepping aside to let him in. “Apologies, I forgot to catch your name earlier…?” 

This was always a gamble-- guests only told him the truth half the time. “Uh.” This one looked around the house with something close to fear, eyes darting from one expensive art piece to the next. “I’m-- Tom.” A lie, then. “Nice house.” 

“Thank you,” Hannibal smiled, all courtesy. “A pleasure to meet you-- I’m Doctor Hannibal Lecter.” No point in lying-- who would believe ‘Tom,’ anyway? “Would you like a drink?” 

‘Tom’ raised one thick brow, lips quirking. “A doctor? Couldn’t tell based on your username.” The stranger relaxed, just a touch. “Yeah, I could go for a drink.” 

Was this his attempt at a joke? Hannibal’s lips pulled into another smile, gaze taking in the worn jeans, the _very_ worn flannel shirt. “This way, then,” he offered, leading his guest into the study. Once inside he brushed past, and from him emanated the scents of dogs, oil, river water, fish guts. Dirt, some stale and some freshly tilled. 

An outdoorsman. How unique. 

He poured their drinks and let ‘Tom’ make himself comfortable on a chaise. “Baltimore seems to be a touch out of the way for you, no?” Tom had been listed as fifty miles away-- staying away from his social circle? Hannibal sat down next to him, draping one arm on the back of the chaise behind his guest.

“That’s how I like it,” the stranger supplied, taking a long drink of his whiskey. His eyes remained steadfast, pointed ahead; insistent on avoidance. 

Hannibal, in turn, sipped at his wine. “Are you a private man, Tom?” 

“You could say that.” Another long sip of his drink. How coy. 

Crossing his legs, Hannibal decided to push the stranger, just a touch. “Not a fan of eye contact?”

This got ‘Tom’ to look his way, even if his gaze only reached Hannibal’s jaw. He smiled, something torn between amusement and irritation, before he downed the rest of his whiskey in one smooth move. He was thoughtful enough to set it aside before he turned and grabbed the collar of Hannibal’s shirt, crumpling it. 

As lips hit against his own, Hannibal wondered how long it would take to iron out the creases. If ‘Tom’ might be best prepared steamed. Once teeth were added to the mix, however, ‘Tom’ had his attention. 

It started gently, almost tenderly, before it devolved into something else altogether. ‘Tom’ was quick to latch onto him, nails digging into the meat of his shoulder while his other hand grabbed onto the base of Hannibal’s skull, forcing his mouth further open, taking _more_. 

This one was more eloquent in actions than in words. Hannibal responded in kind, one hand making its way to Tom’s ribcage to pull him in closer, to squeeze until Tom gasped. He pulled away, smiling at the fog collecting in the stranger’s glasses. “I’ll take that as a no, then.” The stranger set his glasses on the same side table as his empty glass, tilting his head down to undo the buttons on his shirt. Already, the stranger’s breathing was hard. Excitable little thing. Hannibal placed a hand on the pale sliver of skin that revealed itself between open buttons. “Eager, are we?” 

Hannibal let his eyes drift up past his own hand, past the long column of the stranger’s throat; past the square jaw and light stubble, past the sloping nose, and into eyes that lanced into and through him like a _scalpel_. His mouth went dry. For a split second, he wondered if this stranger knew him better than he did himself; if he could see right into his mind, into his basement. If those all-seeing eyes could glimpse the operating table, stored so carefully away, the metal of its surface gleaming in wait. The quiet patch of woods where he had scooped Mischa’s raw innards into his mouth, the meat salted with tears.

The Chesapeake Ripper had never felt so close to capture. “You talk too much,” the stranger mumbled, finishing with the buttons of his shirt and shrugging it off. He reached for Hannibal’s shoulders, shoving him backward until he was forced to recline against the arm of the chaise. “Here’s what we’re gonna do,” the stranger continued, kicking his way between Hannibal’s legs, “I’m gonna get your pants off-- are you prepped?”  
  
Hannibal nodded; anything more eloquent escaped him. 

“Good.” That was all the stranger needed; he undid the button and fly of Hannibal’s trousers with efficient, albeit shaky, hands. He lifted Hannibal’s hips, fingertips gentle as could be; the moment Hannibal aided him by holding them up himself, the stranger wrenched his trousers down with the suspicious snap of thread. 

He would have killed anyone else for this transgression; but Hannibal was weak to beauty, and spellbound by this stranger’s omniscient gaze. Besides, he had been promised ‘rough,’ and this stranger appeared to be delivering-- for that he could overlook one mistake or two. He wasn’t even hard yet, but still he wanted-- he spread his legs and propped one heel on the cushion of the chaise, the other on the floor. He wouldn’t bother this creature with wasted words. Hannibal only looked at him, the angel who hadn’t even stripped out of his worn jeans, and asked, “Well?” 

Said angel only looked down at him, eyes dark, lips twisted into a smirk. A fallen angel, then-- one who was fast grabbing a condom from an old Altoids box tucked in his pocket, unbuttoning his own jeans, tugging at the zip, rolling it on, and--

Perhaps Hannibal should have placed more faith in the stranger who had voluntarily described himself as “rough.” As it was, however, any air that had been inside of his lungs left him, black hovering at the edges of his vision as the stranger between his legs pushed into him without so much as a warning. He couldn’t even acclimate to the foreign thing filling him before the stranger began pulling out, hips pumping. It hurt; it burned so sweetly that words left him altogether, and all he could do was let his mouth fall open in silent prayer. He hissed as the stranger pulled out of him, just slightly, so achingly empty after being forced so full; the dichotomy was overpowering. Yes, of course he had prepared himself, stretched himself with his own fingers, but this was--

He choked on his own voice as he felt it push back in, the friction against him sending shivers up his spine. He felt a flick at his cock, half-hard now, and realized belatedly that his head had been thrown back, throat bared. Looking down, he saw the stranger staring at him, middle finger perched behind his thumb in preparation for another flick. 

The stranger timed it with a thrust back in, and Hannibal saw sparks. A low moan forced its way through his lips before he could stop it. He felt another flick, the sting of the stranger’s fingernail against delicate skin compounding. “Gonna use this later,” the stranger panted, using his whole hand to squeeze Hannibal’s cock _hard_ , pulling slowly, too slowly, to the head of it. Vicious little thing. 

Hannibal was going to make him cry. He was going to make this angelic little devil beg on his hands and knees. He was going to choke him on his cock until he gasped, drool sliding down his chin. 

For now, though, he was going to get fucked until his darling monster was satisfied. He let the stranger slam into him at a ferocious pace, only barely brushing at his prostate-- they both knew whose pleasure took precedence. Hannibal grasped at the stranger’s sleeves, nails digging in until the copper tang of blood mixed with the reek of sex and sweat. The stranger, sweet thing, moaned for him. It sounded better than any symphony he’d ever heard in his life. He forced his nails in harder; felt the stranger’s cock twitch inside of him. 

“A glutton for pain, aren’t you?” Hannibal gasped, pushing his hips back to meet the stranger’s every thrust. He pushed himself up onto his arms, then, giving himself just enough momentum to land, cock still very much inside of him, in the stranger’s lap. “Is it the pain that excites you--” he lifted his hips up, up, just enough to feel the head of the stranger’s cock against his rim, before slamming his hips down and letting his eyes drift closed at the pressure. The _depth_. “Or is it the danger?” 

The stranger gasped, his eyes fluttering closed as Hannibal’s opened. His slender neck tipped back, and for a moment Hannibal wanted to rip out his trachea then and there, to devour his new pet with the same bloody fervor he’d devoured his first kill. It was exhilarating. 

Rather than answer, though, the stranger used his hands to grasp at Hannibal’s hips; he planted his feet on the floor and used the new leverage to slam his hips upward, gasping a quiet, “Shut _up_.” 

Hannibal complied, if only because his angel was growing frustrated. He could save his observations for pillow talk, anyway. No, instead he rode the stranger’s cock, teeth bared in a snarl when he felt the stranger’s mouth sucking _hard_ on his clavicle, nails sinking into his thighs. A groan was forced out of him, and Hannibal returned the favor by clutching at the soft curls the stranger’s hair and pulling until his head tilted back. 

Not one to pass an opportunity, he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his partner and bit down on the stranger’s tongue. If he felt a stab of smug superiority at the stranger’s whine, he made no mention of it. The stranger hissed, pulling back, baring his pale throat; Hannibal knew then and there that he would ruin that pale column of skin entirely tonight, mark it as his own. This creature was his, his alone— he would just need to learn that fact for himself. 

Slowly, carefully, Hannibal pulled himself up and onto his knees, gulping down a moan as the head of the stranger’s cock pulled out of him with a filthy _pop_. He looked down at him, at those glassy blue eyes and tired pink mouth and softening cock, unable to keep back a smirk. It was his turn, now. 

He stood to his feet, legs surprisingly weak, and considered the man in front of him, sated and soft and leaning back, looking to Hannibal with eyes full of expectation. Challenge. “Would you like to take this to the bedroom?” 

  
  


***

Will had never seen someone look so goddamned cocky when walking around with nothing on but a button-down and socks, but then again there were firsts for everything, millionaire booty calls notwithstanding. He followed _Doctor_ Hannibal Lecter up the stairs, down the hall, and to--

Christ. It was a bedroom, alright, one that looked damn near tailor-made for sex. The fireplace on the far side of the wall; the enormous bed, at least an Alaskan King-size; the _mirror over the mantel_ , reflecting any activity that might occur on aforementioned bed. 

What was this, a porno set? At least it would make for a tasteful one-- Will began unbuttoning his shirt, staring down his host and giving him one lifted brow, followed by a smirk. Sure, he was impressed, but there was no reason the _doctor_ had to know. “A fireplace and everything,” he observed, eyes remaining on his host as he shrugged off his flannel shirt. “You have some loud aesthetic tastes.” 

“Oh?” Hannibal asked, taking one slow step toward Will; looked like they were on their way to switching positions, based on the dark look in his eyes. He stepped closer, closer, and eventually placed his open hand against Will’s ribcage, smoothing it along to his lower back. The other hand made its way to the back of Will’s neck, clamping down just hard enough to ground him. “And what do those ‘loud aesthetic tastes’ tell you, Tom?” 

The hand on the nape of his neck became crushing in the best possible way, and Will hissed as he answered, “What don’t they?” Nails were added to the mix on his back, and the groan that rattled out of Will’s throat couldn’t have been stopped by willpower alone. “I’m guessing you hunt,” he began, voice soft, “Or at least like having enough dead animals around to--” another hand pulled hard at his hair, and his thoughts shorted out, replaced by that perfect, contented static. “To feel superior to them; you’re alive, they’re dead, and they’re just--” another hiss, more speckles of light flashing below his eyelids, another spasm of pain so sweet he felt his heartbeat quicken, “Dumb, dead animals who were in the wrong place, at the wrong time.” The nails at his back dug in deeper, _deeper_ , and for a moment all he could do was close his eyes and enjoy the sensation. No thoughts. No concerns. No murderers swimming around in his mind. Just this. “Animals,” he groaned, “Don’t really have a sense of fate, or a future ahead of them. They just exist until they’re killed. And you like it that way.” 

He must have hit some kind of nerve, because _Doctor_ Hannibal’s eyes gleamed with an eerie fascination, and for half a moment Will felt the same twirling sensation in his guts as he did at a murder scene. He didn’t move, didn’t speak; only looked into those dark eyes, wondering what violence the hands on him were capable of. Maybe he’d find out. 

This shouldn’t have pushed more blood into his cock so much as it should have had him investigating further, but then again the doctor could have been onto something when he mentioned Will’s desire for ‘danger.’ Instead of breaking the silence any further, then, he grabbed back onto that crumpled white shirt collar a second time and brought their lips back together. 

The hand in his hair only pulled him back later, gasping, leading him face-first to the bed with a strength that left Will breathless. The doctor hauled him about the room by the hair as if it were nothing-- this would be another red flag to consider later, over whiskey, in the comparative safety of his home. But for now, he let the doctor lift his waist until he was laid out, knees up and shoulders flat against the bed. “Are you prepared, Tom?” The doctor-- Hannibal, something? The specifics of his name were starting to blur against the mattress and the fist pulling his scalp taut. Regardless-- the doctor’s voice was gentle, in a way that his grip was not. 

He couldn’t dare try nodding, not with that hand already pulling at him. “Yeah,” he answered simply, voice muffled against the cloud-softness of the mattress. _Doctor_ Hannibal Something sure made enough at his practice, that was for sure-- Will doubted anything in this house wasn’t specifically tailored for luxury. 

_Scratch that_ , some voice in the back of his mind reminded him, just as he began to feel a thick something slide against the backs of his jeans, _You were made for rougher things_. 

The doctor was kind enough to fully undo his belt, his jeans buttons, his zip-- it was almost surprising, considering the awkwardness of the angle, but he couldn’t complain. Slowly-- tenderly, almost-- he felt fingers pulling back his jeans, pulling down his boxers-- 

“Oh, my,” the doctor sighed, clearly pleased as punch at Will’s forethought. “You shouldn’t have.” Two fingers gripped at the base of the plug-- stainless steel, refrigerated prior to use, and miserable frigid perfection inside of him, at least for the first ten minutes of wear-- and pulled. Will, whose face had already made itself home against the mattress, pressed in further to muffle his next moan. God, the way it pulled out of him, slow and steady, warm to the touch from his own body--

_Oh_. The doctor was having his fun, then, pushing it back in, pulling it out-- toying with him. This was a cruelty of another kind, one that had Will mouthing at the sheets beneath him, the knotted muscles in his back skyrocketing with tension; the base of his spine white-hot with sensation. Noises left his lips before they could stop them, embarrassing little sounds that were only eased out of his throat through gentle manipulation, soft teasing, delicate touches. Fuck. His cheeks burned. 

“You react so differently to different kinds of touch,” doctor Harry Lecture or whatever observed, voice so rough and low that Will could only liken it to old floorboards stepped on. The hand that had been gripping at his hair eased off, smoothed its way down his back. Caressing him. “Your body could be an instrument, in the right hands.” It was all too close to the trajectory of his own thoughts, too similar to the voice in the back of his mind telling him to ease into each touch, to take and take and _take_ until his perpetual touch starvation was sated. 

Instead, however, he spread his legs as far as he could manage, constricted as he was with his jeans at his knees, and pushed back. “Okay Doctor Seuss, shut up and put your cock in me.” 

Will had hoped that, perhaps, this request might have precluded Doctor Harrison Something actually doing what he was told, primarily shutting the fuck up; instead, he heard a small huff of laughter and felt the plug press into him again, more insistently. “All good things take time.” If Will rolled his eyes, well, how convenient that his face couldn’t be seen. 

Thankfully, after a scant few moments more, he felt the plug pulled out of him, slowly, so slowly that he couldn’t help but moan and clench down on the rapidly disappearing girth. Fuck. Immediately, he felt something else pressing at him, slender and gentle, and _ohgodohgodohgod_ , rubbing into his prostate until he saw sparks. Fuck. Was this a urologist he was dealing with? Because, shit, he was hammering his fingers entirely too roughly against him, a man who had come less than ten minutes ago. Wasn’t there some doctoral oath about not causing more harm than good? 

Not that he was complaining. 

Distantly, Will realized he was drooling on the sheets; he tried lifting himself onto his elbows, at least enough so he could find a way to fully escape his jeans, when that hand came down on him again, this time at the center of his back. Fingers splayed open, pushing him down until all he could do was roll his hips against those goddamned _fingers_ . They were vicious-- choked sounds kept coming out of him, muffled in drool and bedsheets, and if he didn’t get a cock in him _now_ he was going to rip this idiot doctor’s head off, because holy hell, this was--

Another finger slipped in, and Will couldn’t bring himself to care that a blush was blazing down his back and chest, that he’d just let out a moan so saturated in pleasure that his cock almost started leaking again. Those hands. The stretch. The way those fingers reached unbearably far into him, just grazing his prostate now, focusing more on the _in-and-out-and-in-and-out_ , so good, so good, so fucking good, please, more, now, fucking Christ, please, put it in, _please_ , just--

He breathed in, shocked to hear his thoughts voiced aloud. Out from his own throat, thrummed from his own vocal chords. Slightly less shocking was the loud _smack_ of a hand against his ass. Pain, liquid and viscous, flooding through him. Nerve endings sending pain signals to his brain. 

His cock was hard, red and leaking, and he wanted to come again. He hadn’t gotten his host off once, and he was already halfway there, again. Humiliation poured into him, hot and fast. It only made his cock twitch more. _Fuck_. 

The fingers pushed hard into him, hard enough for him to feel knuckles at his rim, and all he could do was choke out another moan and shiver as they pulled out, leaving him empty. 

“Are you ready, Tom?” Doctor Whatever’s voice was slow, measured. “Do you feel sufficiently stretched?” Will nodded. He was positive his voice would betray just how wrecked he felt already, and the puddle of drool by his chin wasn’t doing him any favors. “Good boy.” 

Oh, fuck. He really was done for, wasn’t he? He felt those hands against him again, delicately holding onto his thigh and pulling him fully out of his jeans, his boxers. Each touch felt practiced, almost clinical-- surgeon, maybe? That fit better than urologist. Felt more right. 

Then he was flipped onto his back, staring dazed up at the ceiling, legs spread open. He lifted his head up, watched Doctor Something-or-Other roll a condom onto what he had already understood to be a big goddamned cock. Throw in the house, the career, the face-- he must’ve been the subject of no small amount of envy. _Must be nice_. The steel glint in his eyes, though, that still put Will on edge. He didn’t doubt that he’d find some skeleton or another in one of these closets. 

If his dick twitching happened to coincide with those concerns, well. He could work that out during a Friday night with a few fingers of whiskey. Besides, he had something to do in the meantime. “Gonna get started anytime soon, there?” 

Doctor What’s-His-Name only smiled, amused in his own secretive way. “Beautiful things should be admired,” he began, lining his cock up, gently maneuvering Will’s legs until they were settled onto his shoulders. “They should also be taken apart carefully.” 

Will was halfway through an eye roll when he felt it, seismic, triggering a low rumble in his ears. Begging for it while clenching on fingers was one thing, but feeling it-- feeling it press into him, slow and sure and so wide that he _ached_ \-- that was another thing entirely. Distantly, he knew that a very not-sexy sound was coming from his mouth, somewhere between a choke and a gargle, but much more present were the hands on his thighs, guiding him down, down, farther. Impossibly, farther. 

Now, Will was no size queen; as long as a dick could hit his prostate and the owner of said dick could knock him around a bit, he’d be satisfied. The owner of the dick in question happened to be knowledgeable about reproductive anatomy, however, and more worryingly, he used that knowledge in combination with the aforementioned large dick to _hammer_ Will’s prostate. 

He was in no place to verbalize these thoughts, of course. All he could do then was stare at the cozy dark ceiling, slack-jawed, trying to remember how to breathe when it felt like his organs were being crushed from the inside. He felt hands clawing into the soft flesh of his thighs, fiery hot pain coursing through him; those hands, pulling at his hips until they could pull him no more, seated fully as he was on Doctor Something’s cock. His legs were forced closer to his chest, painfully close, and all he could do was gasp at the sensation. The stinging ache in his back. The way his ankles bobbed about in the air, nothing to ground them. Doctor Something’s face, just at the periphery of his vision, diving down to attack his neck. 

The bruising suction at his jaw, his throat, the slope where his neck met his shoulder. The sensation of teeth, of danger, of those teeth just at his trachea, just close enough to build a spike of apprehension in his gut. “I--” he gulped down air, breathless, choking on his own pleasure, “I’m gonna--” 

Will felt a hand wrap around the base of his cock, and sobbed. It was too much; too much stimulation, too much inside of him, too much suction at his throat, too much titillating danger, too much, too much, too much, please, it’s _so_ much, just come already, you smug bastard, I get it, you’re good at this, _please_ \-- 

The hand on his cock released, and Will did the same not much later, an explosion of color setting off under his eyelids. He knew he was gripping onto something, gripping hard enough to draw blood, to gather dead skin cells under his fingernails; he knew his back was going to hurt the next morning, especially after being folded in fucking half; he knew he’d remember this particular appointment more vividly than any other before it. He knew his body felt relaxed beyond belief; he knew his brain was so thoroughly bathed in oxytocin and dopamine that the monsters in his head fled from it altogether. He knew his mind felt like mush, so thoroughly fucked out that he could barely string a sentence together. 

He knew the man pulling out of him, _finally_ soft, was dangerous. He just didn’t know in what capacity. Slowly, Doctor Henry--Harley?-- Something pulled away. Gently, he helped Will’s legs fall back down onto the bed. With just as much care, the doctor pushed Will’s hair out of his eyes; pulled a set of wipes from his nightstand, cleaning up any leftover lube. “One thing I find interesting about the human psyche is its many barriers against pain; there are none such protections against pleasure.” His eyes slid Will’s way, clearly pleased. “Would you like me to get you anything? Water?” Will shook his head, rubbing at his eyes. Hell, he could have fallen asleep then and there, if he didn’t have somewhere else to be. 

“I should probably get going,” Will rasped, sitting up. Every inch of his body ached in some way. His mind was clearing, thoughts coming to him a little faster, now, and he remembered that he was very much in the home of a man capable of violence; something in him just knew. By the pleased sparkle in his eyes, or the way Will had been pinned down without a sliver of a choice, or the outright bizarre taste in home decor-- something about this doctor was off. As shit as he was with social interaction, Will had a good eye for these things. This wasn’t someone he wanted to be around for any longer than necessary. 

“Would you like me to drive you home? You’ve just--” 

“Not necessary,” Will answered right back, picking up his jeans (his keys, phone, wallet, and trusty Altoids box were where he left them), his shirt, dressing himself with a practiced swiftness. “Thanks for tonight, though, I appreciate it.” Dressed and presentable. Good. He ran a hand through his hair, catching his ruined appearance in the mirror. 

He looked _awful_. He might as well have lost a fight; there was no way to explain away the bruising on his jaw, no way to properly hide it; no turtlenecks could cover his face. “Of course, you’re quite welcome,” the doctor replied. Will looked at him through the mirror; saw the pleased expression on his face. “I enjoyed myself immensely. If you’d like, I’d be happy to give you my phone n--” 

But Will had already made his way to the door, shutting it behind him. It was best to get out early, anyway-- his dogs were waiting for him. 

***

Rude. Shockingly so, especially after their time together. If he were anyone else, Hannibal would have followed, stopping ‘Tom’ before he could leave and breaking his neck then and there, creating a new definition of ‘food delivery.’ He could have at least let Hannibal down _gently_. Not that that would have deterred him from further pursuit, of course, but it was poor etiquette. 

With a sigh, Hannibal pulled a robe from his closet and wrapped it around himself, quick to walk down the hallway to a window facing the street; if he was fast enough, it was possible that he could get a license plate number. He’d memorize it, pay a few hundred dollars to one of his favored sources, acquire a more official knowledge of the man he’d come to know so intimately. There was a violence there, a mirrored understanding in the stranger’s mind that had Hannibal curious for more. What did he know? What had he gleaned out of their short time together? What could he mold of ‘Tom,’ once they’d done away with niceties? There was a temptation there, wholly new and interesting. 

For the first time in a long time, Hannibal considered that he may have found a potential equal. 

But the street was empty, and all he had was a fake name and a Grindr profile that offered little. Well-- at least he had a challenge ahead of him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is!! It's been a hot minute since I've written outright smut-- and this is some no-holds-barred outright smut, haha. I'd love to know your thoughts on this! I used a few new writerly techniques, and am hoping that they came across well. Thanks for reading! :D

**Author's Note:**

> This is the Grindr alternate meeting no one asked for, but I'm providing regardless. It haunted me until I wrote this, so here ya go! 
> 
> Reneeheart's fic, Anonymous, is linked below-- please read it, it's such a treat! 
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/28347420/chapters/69453081


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